


The Father of Security

by c3mf, Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas is too big for his own good, F/M, Growing Up, M/M, Secret Desires, and is easier to read than he thinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the meme:<br/>Douglas accidentally physically hurt someone when he was young because he's so big and grew up much more quickly than other kids. Now, he's super-wary, even though all he really wants to do is stretch out on the couch with someone, wrap his arms around their middle, and rest his head on their chest so they will play with his hair.</p><p>But he's afraid he's too big and heavy and will hurt them, so he denies himself every time the urge strikes.</p><p>What happens when his current partner (Martin?) figures everything out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Father of Security

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes an awful lot to c3mf and Sproid, especially the fourth part. 
> 
> The title comes from this quote:  
> "Distrust and caution are the parents of security." - Benjamin Franklin

It was an accident. He’d only been going for the football, trying out a Bobby Moore-style tackle he’d seen on the telly the night before. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. But the moment Ian McFarland let out a scream like a rabbit caught in a snare and fell to the ground clutching his leg, Douglas knew he’d done something _not right_.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of his footing, until the blankness in his mind went away. Then, tentatively, he started over to where Ian was lying on the ground, though he didn’t get very far. Before he could get within three feet of him, three of his friends were there, shoving him away and holding him back. Douglas was confused for a moment before he realized they were _protecting_ Ian. _From him._

His felt his face flush in shame and turned on his heel, pushing past the crowd of students and teachers who’d gathered around the fallen boy. Once he broke free of the press of bodies, he sped up, aiming for the dubious shelter of a classroom. He didn’t get very far before there was a disorienting moment of weightlessness as his feet left the ground and a sudden crushing inability to breathe.

“Where do you think you’re going, Richardson?” Mr. Blackwell’s voice from behind him matched the iron grip he had on Douglas’s collar. Once he’d regained his feet, Douglas turned to face him, eyes darting for something to focus on that wasn’t the pure disdain radiating from the face of the one teacher who’d had it out for him since the start of term. 

“Nowhere, sir,” he said, forcing himself to keep his tone properly deferential and his face blank in spite of the shame and fear coursing in alternate turns through his veins.

Mr. Blackwell’s eyes narrowed at him. “Come with me,” he said and grabbed Douglas’s arm, keeping his meaty thumb pressed precisely into the nerve at his elbow. The awkwardness of having his arm held so high threw Douglas off-balance. Every time he tripped, he’d crash into Mr. Blackwell’s bulk and the nerves in his arm would spark in pain as the teacher tightened his grip. By the time they reached the Headmaster’s office, Douglas’s fingers were tingling and he was feeling lightheaded.

Without a word, Mr. Blackwell threw him into a chair and gave him an icy look, disappearing into the back with the Headmaster. Douglas’s vision tunneled sharply, and he instinctively leaned over to put his head between his knees. He could hear pieces of the discussion taking place behind the closed door: “fighting,” and “grievous bodily harm,” and “menace” filtered through thick mahogany and the buzzing in his ears.

There was a gentle prodding at his shoulder, and a cup of water appeared at the edge of his vision. It was Mrs. Baker, the kindly secretary, who’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Douglas--aided in part by his resemblance to her son at that age. With slightly shaking hands, Douglas accepted the gift, taking a slow sip and giving her a wan version of his normal smile. She returned it and moved back to her seat, but not before ruffling his hair a bit.

The door opened and two men came out.

“RIchardson,” the Headmaster said, in his gravest _you-are-in-serious-trouble_ tones. “I’ve rung for your father. You’re to wait with Mr. Blackwell until he’s come to collect you. We’ll have no further trouble from you, do you understand?”

Douglas nodded, looking down at his feet, then felt a familiar hand on his collar. “Stand up when the Headmaster is speaking to you. And speak up, like a man.” 

Douglas let himself be hauled to his feet, then looked the Headmaster in the eye. “Yes, sir.”

With that, the three of them filed out--the Headmaster bound for the yard, and the other two to the room at the back of the school used for discipline. Douglas had spent more than his fair share in that room, mostly the result of the man currently digging in the drawers for a lighter, and drifted absently to the desk he’d come to know as his own. They sat in silence for ages, until Douglas’s father arrived. No words were exchanged, just a polite nod between the adults and a stern glare Douglas’s way. 

If the waiting had been painful, the car ride home was excruciating. His father turned off the radio with a snap, and they rode in silence, Douglas couldn’t remember the last time there hadn’t been music playing, no matter how softly, and his stomach turned into knots. _Don’t be mad,_ he thought. _Just ask. Please, please, please ask_. He knew that volunteering any information or excuses would only make him look more guilty. Nothing was worse in his father’s eyes than not taking responsibility, and anything he saw as an attempt to evade that responsibility met a swift and harsh discipline.

By the time they got home, Douglas felt ready to be sick. He went silently to his room as instructed, but could only slide his shoes off and curl up on the bed to wait for the nausea to dissipate. Eventually, he hauled himself up and forced himself to start changing out of his school clothes. He’d only managed to get his jumper off by the time his father returned, and was halfway out of his undershirt when the door opened. His father paused with his mouth open, shutting the door swiftly behind him and picking Douglas up to set him on the bed. Gently, he took Douglas’s arm and pulled it towards him, tracing the finger-shaped bruises already developing on his elbow. Douglas bit his lip and looked away.

“Who started it?”

Douglas whipped his head around so quickly he felt a twinge in his neck. For a moment, his brain refused to engage, but then he managed to stutter out “N-no one, sir.”

A quirked eyebrow. “Don’t give me that. Fights don’t just happen by themselves.”

To his great mortification, Douglas felt his eyes well with tears as the memory of the look on Ian’s face flooded his brain. “I wasn’t fighting.”

“Really,” his father said. “Mr. Hampton and Mr. Blackwell seem to think you were.”

Douglas sniffled a bit and shook his head. “Mr. Hampton only thinks that because Mr. Blackwell told him so. I wasn’t fighting. I promise.” A tear threatened to spill out of the corner of his eye.

His father released his hand and joined him on the bed. “If you weren’t fighting, then what happened, boy-o?”

That was it, Douglas felt the dam break. With a hitched sob, he turned into his father’s side, latching onto his cardigan, the whole tale spilling from his lips between sniffles. His father said nothing, just pulled him into a hug and rubbed his back, listening thoughtfully. 

“I’m sorry,” Douglas said, once he’d finished. The hand on his back stilled, but didn’t leave. Instead, his father turned him gently and held his other hand in the air, fingers outstretched. 

“I want to show you something. Put your hand here.”

Tentatively, Douglas reached out, aligning their hands. If he stretched, he could just about make up the width, but his fingers were easily an inch shorter than his father’s. He watched as he curled his fingers over, enveloping Douglas’s easily.

“Do you see how much bigger mine is?” his father asked. Douglas nodded.

“Do you know that your hand is already bigger than your mother’s?”

Douglas looked up at him in surprise, shaking his head. 

“You’re pure Richardson,” his father told him. “And we grow big, like men should be. But what that means is you have to learn to be careful. Because we grow even bigger than most other men, and very much bigger than women. If you’re not careful, if you don’t pay close attention to how you move, you end up with an accident like today’s, and you’ll hurt someone again. Do you understand?”

Douglas nodded again and gradually pulled away, wiping at his eyes and flushing red in embarrassment. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been told how men should act and now there he was, crying like a baby. And in front of his father, no less. He glanced side-eyed, but there was no disgust on his face, just calm acceptance. With a clap on his shoulder, his father stood up.

“Get changed and come through for dinner. Your mother’s waiting.”

“Yes, sir,” Douglas said, and turned away. He heard the door open and his father pause.

“One more thing,” he said. “Where’d you get those bruises if not from fighting?”

Douglas’s ears burned more hotly. “Mr. Blackwell.”

“I see,” his father said, then left.

By the time he made it to the table, Douglas could hear his father on the phone, voice cold as ice to whomever was on the other end. “As long as you keep your hands off my son, we won’t have a problem. Do I make myself clear?” A pause, then “Excellent. Have a good evening,” and he hung up.

Douglas seated himself at the table, looking up at his mother as she filled his plate. He could tell by the look she gave him that she knew everything, but that it didn’t matter. She just dropped a kiss on his head and dished him out more beans.

He went to bed early without protest, huddling under the covers, but every time he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of Ian’s scream mixed with Mr. Blackwell’s accusations and saw the obviously-broken leg mingled with the blame on his peers’ faces. Nothing he did made it go away, and for a long moment he considered joining his parents in bed. He decided to tough it out, squaring his shoulders to his (in his mind, at least) well-deserved punishment.

He had nightmares for a week.

\-----  
It wasn’t an accident. They had been arguing off and on for the last fortnight, the product of Sarah’s looming move to read law. Neither of them had wanted to admit that long-distance relationships weren’t really their thing, equally terrified of having to start over.

They’d been the first of their friends to form a steady relationship, one that had lasted nearly three years--an eternity in their adolescent minds. But in the months before Sarah left, it seemed they did nothing but fight.

They were sitting on the sofa, where it was their habit to engage in that favorite pastime of teenagers left home alone with nothing to occupy themselves. But there were entire cushions between them--a mile of unspoken resentment and fear.

Between programs, Sarah went to get the post, flipping through the letters and bills absentmindedly. A slim blue envelope peeked out, and Douglas watched as she hunted around for the letter opener before prying up the glue as carefully as she could. It was a card, made of cheap, common stock, but a smile twitched the corners of her lips as she read it.

“Who’s that from, then?” he asked, doing his best to hide his interest.

“No one,” she said, tucking it back into the envelope and setting on top of her schoolbooks.

Douglas felt an irrational stab of resentment. “You smiled like it was someone.”

“It’s no one, Doug. Just a congratulations card.”

“Who from?”

Sarah moved to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. “From whom,” she corrected absently. 

“Fine then, _from whom_?”

“I told you! No one!”

Her protestations were no good--Douglas had already snagged the envelope and was prying it open. “Jimmy Durant?! Why is Jimmy Durant sending you cards?”

Sarah came in, a furious look on her face. “Why are _you_ opening my mail?”

“Because you’re lying to me! I have a right to know--”

She cut him off. “You don’t have any _right_ to know _anything_. You’re not my keeper. Fine, it was Jimmy. And maybe he sent me a card because, unlike certain other people I could name, he’s actually _happy_ that I am getting to do what I want with my life, instead of sitting around here in Fitton-Upon-Bloody-Nowhere doing nothing!”

“I’m not doing nothing,” he said, surging out of his seat. “Just because I haven’t decided yet doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing.”

“Then what is your problem? It’s not difficult, you could go anywhere you wanted if you would apply yourself instead of just...making jokes and trying to have sex with me. But no, you’re too lazy to put that sixty-stone brain of yours to work. It’s a good job you have me around to steal answers off of.”

“It’s a good job _you_ have _me_ around. Who else would have you, you shrieking harpy? All you do is criticize and complain.” He slipped into a nasal falsetto and purposefully moved to crowd her space, forcing her to step back. “Oh, no one understands how special I am. No one wants to hear me talk about this ridiculous book I read and how smart I think it makes me look that I’m reading Dostoyevsky and Chekov and how much I hate Fitton and my family and everyone here! About how much better off I’ll be once I’m a famous judge, free of everyone, but especially stupid, childish, lazy Douglas.” Too late, snapped his mouth shut.

If they’d met later in life, maybe one of them would have the maturity to recognize the argument’s undercurrents of fear and hurt. But neither Douglas, filled with mortification at revealing so much, nor Sarah, pricked by the confirmation of her greatest insecurity, had the wherewithal to step back from the edge.

“You’re right,” she shouted back as her shoulders met the wall and he towered over her. “I don’t understand you at all! It’s not fair that you’re angry at me because I’ve decided to make something of myself, and that I’m going to have a great time at uni, and you’re going to be here, still working in Mr. Garber’s store until the day you die.”

“I don’t care that you’re going to uni, or that you’re going to be a judge. You won’t make it through anyway!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?!”

“Because you’re leaving me behind!” he roared, lifting his hands to the air in exasperation.

Sarah flinched, head thumping against the wall behind her, and Douglas froze. In a flash, he took stock of the situation--the lack of space between them, how very big he was, how very small _she_ was, and the inevitable conclusion she’d drawn the instant his hands left his side. He dropped them immediately and took several large steps backwards, putting the sofa between them. With a sigh of relief, her shoulders sagged and just like that, it was over.

The silence between them stretched and grew heavy. “I think you should leave,” she finally said.

Douglas nodded and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, careful to leave plenty of space between them. She walked him to the door, still maintaining a cautious distance. He stepped outside and turned to her, poised to say something, _anything_ that would erase the enormity of what he’d done, what she’d been prepared to believe he would do. But his tongue was lead in his mouth, his teeth soldered together. The decisive snick of the door shutting echoed in his ears for days, but was nothing compared to the memory of the terrified look on her face that lasted the rest of his life.

\-----  
It was unexpected. Nothing he’d read in any of the advice books or “so you’re having a baby” pamphlets could have prepared him for his first glimpse of the squalling, flailing, _gorgeous_ creature that was his daughter. His mother had tried to explain it, but eventually gave up, settling for a fond pat on his arm and a “You’ll understand.”

He wasn’t sure, but he hoped so. With a fond smile, he looked down at the sleeping Miriam, exhausted after nearly two days of labor, Emily tucked up beside her. His daughter gave a tiny snuffle and then a huge yawn, blinking her eyes open. Douglas could only watch in wonder.

Until the crying started. Before he could figure out how to fix it, Miriam was awake, carrying through what he supposed was some sort of mother’s internal emergency checklist in event of crying baby. It seemed no time at all before she’d narrowed the problem down to a hungry child and employed countermeasures to correct the problem. As Emily suckled, Miriam caught his eye and gave him an assessing gaze. “Stop thinking of our daughter as an aeroplane,” she said.

He made a sound of protest. “I’m not!”

At her disbelieving look, he felt his ears flush. “Alright, I might have. Just a bit.”

“Just a bit,” she agreed. “Do you want to hold her?”

Douglas looked down at the tuft of hair on top of their daughter’s head. “No, that’s alright. Don’t want to disturb her.”

With a yawn, MIriam nodded, shifting a bit uncomfortably.

“Alright, darling?”

“Fine, just...a bit sore is all.” Another yawn.

Douglas reached over and stroked her fringe back from her face. “Go back to sleep.”

Miriam blinked heavy eyes at him. “Where will you be?”

“Here,” he promised, lacing his fingers through hers. “Just right here.”

He kept his word, fascinated by the tiny movements they made in their sleep, how Miriam seemed so in tune with Emily’s every shift and breath, how peaceful they looked. A thought occurred to him, and he stretched out his hand, settling it as gently as he could over Emily’s back. Even without spreading his fingers, his hand covered more than half her body. He snatched it back when she shifted, afraid that even the minute weight of his broad palm was too much for her. For the rest of the night, Douglas sat in quiet contemplation, watching his wife and daughter sleep.

Three days later, he was leaning on the door jamb, watching Miriam change Emily. He could _feel_ the ridiculous grin on his face. Miriam turned around, catching him in the act and smiled in return. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?” she asked.

“You’re doing such a good job, I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said.

She scoffed at him, picking Emily up and giving her a nuzzle. “Do you want to see Daddy?”

Emily gave a happy gurgle in return, and Miriam turned to him with a knowing smile. “The deity has spoken. Your public awaits.”

Douglas felt a stab of panic, looking at the tiny bundle cradled in her arms. “No, it’s fine. She looks comfortable.”

Miriam narrowed her eyes at him, assessing, then pointed to the nearby chair. “Sit. I want to take a shower.”

With a sigh, he sat, settling himself back against the cushions and holding his hands out. Something of his uncomfortableness must have shown on his face, or in his posture, because she paused, hands hovering over his.

“Douglas,” she asked, carefully. “Are you--are you _scared_?”

He scoffed at her. “Of course not. Why would you think such a ridiculous thing?”

“Because your hands are shaking.”

He looked down to see it was true. “Just a bit tired, is all,” he said. “It’s fine.” 

Miriam gazed at him for a moment. “You’re not going to hurt her, you know. I promise.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” he said, aiming for wounded but landing just short. “Just...give her to me and go take your shower.” As she settled her onto his chest, he felt a distant note of fear, but Emily only snuggled closer to his warmth and gave a sleepy yawn. Douglas felt his heart swell. 

Miriam dropped a kiss on the top of his head as she left. “Back in a bit...Daddy.”

It took a bit for that word to stop ringing in his ears. When it finally did, he heard the tiniest of snuffles from his arms and looked down to see Emily gumming his shirt. Moving as slowly and gently as he knew how, he rested his broad hand on her back, rubbing softly. She hiccuped once, then settled, giving the tiniest of sighs as she nestled into his neck and fell asleep.

Douglas bent his head slightly, resting his lips next to her ear. A million things came to mind to tell her--stories about the family she’d come to and descriptions of the world she’d see and promises about the man who called himself her father. But a curious feeling blocked his throat and he found no words there. Instead, he focused on the feeling of the tiny back beneath his hand, of her feet on his stomach and her hands on his chest and breathed in the peculiar new-baby smell of her. _I will love you forever,_ he thought _and I will never hurt you_. 

And then, awed by the enormity of the promise he’d just made, he let his mind go blank, and listened to her breathe.

\-----  
It wasn’t unexpected. Martin had had all day to think of the next step in their game of _MJN6_. Before Douglas could even get in a word of hello, a very grubby Martin grinned at him. “I’ve figured it out,” he said. “Hairspray, to see the lasers.” Douglas took Martin’s jacket as it slid off his shoulders and headed for the closet to hang it up. Martin shucked off his shoes and disappeared into the bathroom. 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Douglas said. “Which just leaves us with the dogs and the tower.”

“The dogs are easy. Just throw them drugged steaks.”

Douglas huffed as he picked up Martin’s shoes to set them on the radiator to dry. “I’m sure the RSPCA would have something to say about that.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt us.” Martin stuck his head around the door and grinned. “Besides, it’ll wear off quickly. So, that’s us in the room, then.”

“How would we get in the tower, though?”

“You could stand in my hands.” Martin’s voice was muffled beneath the towel he was using to wipe off his face.

“What?”

He came out, fingers laced together and held waist-high. “I could make a foothold, like this, and then you’d put your foot in and I would lift you up.”

Douglas scoffed at him. “Why wouldn’t _I_ lift _you_ up?”

“Because _I_ didn’t have a misspent youth picking locks. I don’t know how to do it. You, Double-oh Douglas, though...,”

“That is the most absurd thing you’ve ever suggested, and you’ve come up with some doozies.”

“It’s not absurd,” he said, snagging a carrot off the worktop and munching on it. ‘Given the scenario you’ve proposed, it’s the most likely solution.”

Douglas snatched the carrot back. “I was using that, thank you. And you must be crazy. Are you _looking_ for me to break your arms?!”

While he wasn’t looking, Martin stole a piece of celery. “You wouldn’t break my arms. I’m made of much sterner stuff than that."

Douglas sliced the vegetables with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. "I'm twice your size! I can fit one hand around your biceps.” He paused when Martin wrapped his arms around him from behind and kissed his neck.

"You forget I have arms of steel. I can can lift bureaus twice my size with one hand." With a grin, he snatched back the carrot he’d stolen originally and popped the remainder into his mouth.

“No you can't. Stop being ridiculous”

"Oh. Right then. How much are you willing to bet?"

Douglas just sighed and twisted out of Martin’s arms, busying himself with the last of the cooking. “Not a penny. I believe you.”

Martin leaned back against the worktop, watching him perplexedly, "What's all this? It's a _joke_ , Douglas. You don't actually have to bet anything, you do know that, yeah?" Douglas gave the tiniest sigh, focused on the potatoes. "You... you really think you could hurt me? Douglas, now _you're_ the one being ridiculous. What, are you going to club me over the head when I'm not looking?"

He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“Oh, well ding ding, give the man a prize, he’s finally sorted it out. _That’s_ the keyword. _Intentionally._ Why would I blame you for anything else?”

Douglas grunted as he mashed the potatoes. “Never mind. Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please. And no, not never mind.” Martin reached across to put his hand on Douglas’s shoulder. “This is really bothering you, but I don’t understand why. You’ve been... walking on eggshells around me for the past.... God, I don’t know, a long time. It’s really awkward, and...Oh.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, squaring his shoulders.

“Right. I’m a grown up, Douglas. You can tell me when you’ve had enough of me. I’m not going to throw a tantrum.”

Douglas turned around, tossing the masher absently into the sink. “You’re being ridiculous again. If I were tired of you, you’d be the second to know.”

An uncultured snort escaped from Martin. “Second and last, yes, I get it. You might have said something sooner instead of tiptoeing round me and flinching every time I get too close. What, are you afraid of me being clingy? I can restrain myself, don’t worry. I’ve had _years_ of practice. What’s a few more, eh?” He moved to snag a glass from the dish drainer, filling it with water from the tap to give his hands something to do.

Douglas rolled his eyes at him. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Why does everything have to be about you? You’re fine, Martin. _We’re_ fine. Stop being a martyr, it’s unattractive.” 

Martin swallowed and straightened indignantly. “ _Martyr? You’re_ the one walking around your own bloody house like you’ve got a secret! And no, we’re _not_ fine. And do you want to know why? Because _I_ haven’t said we are. So _you’re_ fine, with whatever it is the hell you’re doing, but I’m not. Now, either you want to sort this now and have it done with, or I can go home like I want to because you’re a bloody idiot.”

“Why are you pushing me on this? I’ve already told you, but you’re not listening!” Douglas scooped the potatoes into a serving dish.

“And you’re giving me a truly marvelous runaround to avoid the whole thing. Which means it’s something _important._ I’m not an idiot, Douglas. If it wasn’t something, you’d make jokes, you’d swan off the way you always do, but instead you’re... you’re _running._ And it’s infuriating. How can I help if you don’t _tell_ me and just yell at me all the time?”

A flash of red stole across Douglas’s eyes, echoes of a teenaged Sarah ringing in his ears. “Maybe I don’t want your help! Maybe what I want is to keep you safe, but you and your damn fool stubbornness won’t let me! What do you want from me, a sodding demonstration?” He stepped closer to Martin, trapping him between Douglas’s bulk and the worktop. “Is that what you wanted?” he said. “To see how far you can push me? How much I can hurt you? I never figured you for a masochist, Martin.”

Even with his head tilted back, Martin didn’t back down. He deliberately made eye contact with Douglas and gave him a derisive snort. “Oh, what, since you don’t like what I have to say, now you’re going to... what, bully me into submission? That’s not your style.”

Douglas’s brain finally registered what his subconscious had been screaming at him. With a start, he stepped back, dropping himself into a chair at the table and spreading his hands out on the top.

Martin clenched his fingers around the edge of the worktop, grounding himself with the sharp line across his palm. “Spit it out,” he said, quietly. “Just...just don’t think about it and say it.”

After a long pause, Douglas seemed to make his mind up. “I broke a kid’s leg in school, did I ever tell you that?” He waited a bit for the silence he knew was coming, then continued. “Well, I did, just by playing around. It was...” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t afford it, being careless. Because people get hurt. People I _love_ get hurt. And it’s just.... The thought of doing something like that to you...I don’t like it, is all.”

Martin sighed, running a hand over his face. “Douglas, you moron... God, you were a _kid_. Those things happen. I broke my arm jumping off the roof of my garage when _I_ was a kid. Because I _thought I could fly_. It was an accident...” He pushed himself up and settled himself in the chair beside Douglas’s. Tentatively, he slid his fingers across the back of his hand and threaded them through the longer ones beneath, feeling out the lines and scars of age and experience. 

“That’s the whole point. _You_ broke _your_ arm. And if I’d just been hurting myself, that’d be a whole ‘nother ball of fish.”

Martin sighed and squeezed his fingers gently. “God, you’re going to be difficult the whole way through, aren’t you? Have you ever hurt Emily?”

A startled blink was his answer. “Of course not. And I managed it by being careful. Just as careful as I am with you.”

Martin cocked an eyebrow at him. “So you’re going to treat me like an 8 year old girl as long as we’re together? God, I hope not.”

“It’s better than hurting you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s-- Douglas. You have to admit I am being _remarkably_ patient. But I’m going to spell it out for you, just so there’s no way you can possibly misunderstand me: There’s no way you could hurt me by _being you_. I’d break your fingers first.” They sat there in a tentative silence for a moment.

“Oh!” Douglas looked curiously at Martin’s sudden exclamation. “Oh, this is going to sound wrong. Or weird. Wrong and weird. But you’re about Simon’s size.” He watched Douglas for any glimpse of comprehension. “ _He’s_ never managed to hurt me and he used to _try_ on a regular basis.”

“You don’t get it,” Douglas said. “I wouldn’t be _trying_ to hurt you. It would just...Never mind. You’re clearly not going to understand.” He pulled his hand out from under Martin’s and pushed his chair back. 

Before he could take a step, Martin grabbed his wrist, tugging him back down. “You _can_ hurt me. You even _might_ hurt me. But you won’t _mean to_.” He chewed the inside of his lip, staring into the middle distance. “You... there are more ways to hurt someone than with just your fists. You do know that sometimes _those_ are the sorts of scars that don’t heal?”

Douglas’s first instinct was to make a comment about Martin’s relative lack of experience with the kind of people who could leave those kinds of scars, but he forced himself to swallow it, opting instead for “... Is that your way of saying I’ve hurt you?”

“And I’m still here, aren’t I? Haven’t shattered into a billion bits of glass like you seem to think I’m made of. Though for all the good it’s done me...”

“What does _that_ mean?” 

Martin grimaced and rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. “For all your cleverness, you are absolute _rubbish_ at intuition, you know that?” He met Douglas’s eyes directly. “Yes. You’ve hurt me. No, I haven’t left. No, I am not going to leave, not unless you want me out, and if that’s the case I’d hope you’d have to decency to tell sooner rather than later.”

Douglas swallowed down the tiniest smile at Martin’s vehemence and looked away. “No, I don’t want you out.” 

Martin let his smile show. “Good. That’s good... Now, am I ever going to get my welcome home kiss or are you going to make me beg?”

Douglas sat looking at him for a bit, then leaned forward and cupped his cheek in his hand and gave him a soft kiss. “Welcome home. Go have your shower, I’ll finish dinner.”

Martin rolled his eyes, but rubbed his thumb over Douglas’s knuckles and left the room.

Douglas had just finished plating the roast when he heard Martin pad down the hall and into the living room. He snagged cutlery and their plates them and brought them in, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa and handing Martin’s across. “I didn’t get to ask before--long day?”

Martin ruffled the water absently from his hair and shrugged. “Mm, thanks. Not too bad, no. I managed _not_ to drop a bureau down a flight of stairs, so there’s that. The highlight of my day.” The food disappeared from his plate, as rapidly as could possibly be considered polite. “This is... Mm, really good. Sorry.”

Douglas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the expected compliment. “ _And_ you managed not to strangle an unreasonable housemate when you got home. Clearly a red letter day.”

“Oh, you noticed that? Damn. I was trying so hard for subtlety too.”

Douglas shrugged absently, chasing a stray carrot around his plate. “One picks up on things when one spends their whole life paying attention to what people want to do and what they actually do.”

Martin rolled his eyes where Douglas couldn’t see. “Suppose it’s best I’m learning from the master then, isn’t it?”

“In so many things.” Douglas swept up the rest of the gravy with his bread. “There’s more in the kitchen if you want it”

“Mmm, ta” Martin unfolded his legs from the sofa and hopped over the back, running his fingers through Douglas’s hair as he passed.

Douglas froze, cataloguing the sensation before he recovered himself. “Bring us back another piece of bread?”

He listened to Martin puttering around in the kitchen, grinning at the muffled “What do I get if I do?” He pretended to ponder. “Mmm. A cuddle?”

Martin peeked his head round the door, and arched brow. “I asked about what _I_ got. I’m only seeing the upside for you in this. You get me and bread. How is that fair?”

“Well....what do you want? Perhaps we could negotiate.” Douglas craned his neck to look back over the back of the sofa.

Martin came back out, plate piled with his second helping and Douglas’s bread and sat back down on the sofa with his legs stretched out, wiggling his toes against Douglas’s thigh. “You want your bread, take it. I’m not handing it over. I did enough stretching today.”

Douglas gave him a calculating look then stretched full-length along Martin to grab it from his hands

“Oi! Watch the food!” Martin said as he swiped the plate up, narrowly avoiding Douglas’s face.

“One track mind, you.” Douglas broke off a piece of the bread and ate it, moving to sit back up.

Martin hooked an ankle around him. “I didn’t say you had to move, did I? Just don’t want you upending my dinner onto the carpet.”

Douglas stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, then eyed Martin, clearly calculating relative size and position before gingerly laying himself down. “Persnickety”

There was a silence as Martin chewed thoughtfully. “Are we starting a new word game only you know the rules to again? Shift a bit, I want to move my leg.”

“No, same one as always. Words to Describe My Housemate” Douglas sat up.

“I’ve got one. Thick.” Martin leaned over to put his empty plate on the coffee table. “How do you get ‘go to the other end of the sofa’ from ‘shift a bit’ really?”

Douglas rolled his eyes and scoffed at him. “As if ‘shift a bit’ was descriptive enough to tell me which way you wanted to move your leg.”

“Well, I’ve never known it to involve ruining a rather--Oh, forget it. Would you just come back over here? Please?” He tugged at Douglas’s sleeve gently.

Douglas acquiesced, resuming his former position. “You’d have said I didn’t move enough otherwise, and really, I’ve had enough complaining from you today.”

With a light tap to the back of Douglas’s head, Martin shifted the leg against the sofa back over Douglas’s and draped his arms over Douglas’s shoulders, thumbing gently at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Douglas? Shut up.”

Douglas wrapped his arms around Martin’s middle, and laid his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and letting his eyes slip shut. “Yes, sir.”


End file.
